Whack-a-Mole

Be honest. Does anybody really think Cindy Crawford's mole is sexy? Enrique Iglesias had one on his face, and he was smart enough to get that sucker removed. Obviously, something that distracted from his shagability was a trademark worth violating. I, too, had a mole. It was under my left earlobe; and after living with its unsightliness for 40 years, I got smart and had that sucker removed. Wow, Enrique and I have one thing in common.

Let's back up just a hair or two, cuz yes, healthy moles grow hairs. As if they're not absurd enough. Said mole, which was the size and shape of a double meat cheeseburger, made me so self conscious that I never turned my face away from people for fear they would see it, point, and shout, "Get the flyswatter!" Plus I had a nightmare that while I slept, mice had come over for a nibble. It's why I slept on my left side most of the time—or my right side when I was defying my fear of nibblery, kind of like draping your arm over the side of the bed and forcing yourself to keep it there to prove there are no monsters under the bed. I always caved on that one. You can never be too careful. Hence, after a short time with my mole exposed, I turned over on my pillow.

So I made up my mind. No more cheeseburger in hair-and-mice. I made an appointment with the dermatologist. She assessed Gigantor and scheduled me for surgery. I said, "Surgery? It's a mole, not a tumor." But doc insisted, and a week later, I reported for my big operation. I mean, that doctor was in scrubs and a mask! And, strangely enough, so was Gigantor.

A protective covering was laid over the side of my face, with a tiny opening for a precision gigantorectomy. (I mean, I'm grateful my little G spot got the respect of a heart transplant, but geez!) She then gave me like TEN shots in and around the G spot to be sure it was plenty deadened; and by the time she'd finished, I thought, "Gosh, I'm glad I didn't feel any pain for this procedure." Then Doc brought out the big guns: scissors. SCISSORS!

I heard the snip, snip, snip of Gigantor being whittled away. I had to send myself to a happy place: La la la la la. Gee, this time next week, I can wear my hair behind my ears. La la la la la. Then came cauterization. People, I smelled my own G spot burning. Next, more slicing and dicing and stitches, inside and out. That's when I realized they should have knocked me out. In real surgery, they knock you out. I was robbed, people. This procedure had pharmaceuticals all over it, and I was denied. The perfect example of life's little injustices, n'est-ce pas?

Flash forward six months. Gigantor is gone, but I still hesitate to show the left side of my face. Like phantom pain, I still feel it there. You don't realize how pervasive your negative self-talk is until the reason for it isn't there anymore. I'm reminded of it many times in a single day. The ways we torture ourselves over imperfections, I swear.

But I'm still sleeping on my left side. Just in case.